


Debate Practice

by NicoleAnell



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: twelvecolonies, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-02
Updated: 2009-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleAnell/pseuds/NicoleAnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief OTP ficlet, set in the second half of season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debate Practice

In the mirror he watches her, straightening his collar, parting his hair with a comb. "I'm not going to embarrass you," she promises. "Not while all those people are watching. All those people so desperate for a leader. You're going to give them that. You'll be brilliant."

He says, "Thank you."

"You will be brilliant," she repeats. "You will."

"Yes, I- I appreciate that," he says, still pretending it's a compliment and not an order. She brushes the knots from his hair.

"If you lose this election," she says slowly, "like you lost our baby" -- the teeth of the comb dig into his scalp briefly and he winces but doesn't move away -- "we'll be having another talk. A different one."

"I won't lose," he says, trying to make it sound like truth.

"Oh, I know," she says lightly, kissing his cheek. He's gotten used to the sudden shifts from goddess to girl-next-door, even if the cuteness reads as almost mocking. She settles her face against his. "If you did," she whispers into his ear, "it would make you seem so useless. Wouldn't it, in a literal sense? You wouldn't be much use at all. After I had such faith in you."

"I won't lose," he says a little louder, more concerned with his injured pride than her implicit threats. "No one elected Laura Roslin the first time, did they? The people will do what they want." She rewards his confidence with gentle fingers on his neck and her other arm around his waist.

"That's good. Because I believe you _do_ have a purpose. And no matter how hard you work to frak things up for yourself, God is watching out for you."

"And so are you," he adds automatically, and the statement appears to soften some part of her. There is a flash of true affection in her smile when she nods and says, "Yes." Moments like this, they are so many miles away from any time she was ever angry with him.

She says, "Gaius -- do you trust me?" in a tone that suggests genuine, yearning curiosity. She's never asked him this before.

He thinks long and seriously about it. Surely she's done enough to equally terrify and reassure him -- not just on her own, but in every action associated with this image she's chosen. She knows this. There is something about his thoughtful, fragile humanity and his infinite weakness and his capacity to forgive that she loves, loves divinely and beyond reason. She burns with it. They burn together, and worlds around them. "Sometimes," he says softly. Then, "Always."

He has talking points on women's health and fleet security to rattle off in twenty minutes. She holds him tighter, and he lets his body sway into hers and twist into whatever posture she chooses, like sculptor and clay, like dancers.


End file.
